


Venus & Adonis

by smutty_claus



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Community: smutty_claus, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-26
Updated: 2006-12-26
Packaged: 2017-10-02 12:12:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smutty_claus/pseuds/smutty_claus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Are you the author of this story and just got your own AO3 account?  Email me at: smuttyclausmods@gmail.com and I will edit the author name to reflect your new account!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Venus & Adonis

**Author's Note:**

> Written by MarsEverlasting as part of the Smutty Claus 2006 exchange.

**Title:** Venus &amp; Adonis

 

**Author:** marseverlasting

 

**Gift for:** reallycorking

 

**Rating:** NC-17

 

**Pairing:** Oliver/McGonagall

 

**Word Count:** 14,320 words

 

**Summary:** Minerva McGonagall comes to England to care for her ailing sister, and finds something so much more. A lesson in growth for one, and pleasure for the other.

 

**Warnings:** Age disparity like whoa. Oliver is jailbait, and McGonagall is a total cougar. Includes sex! And boyishness! And excessively long paragraphs!

 

**Author's notes:** many thanks to my wonderful beta, C. You are the sun that lights my very shadowed path. I'm very sorry this fic is six hundred years long, I couldn't shut up. I hope you enjoy it, reallycorking!

 

**Archiving:** Originally posted [here](http://www.journalfen.net/community/smutty_claus/58928.html?mode=reply).

 

 

 

 

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Sing, o Goddess, the lust of Achilles.

 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

 

This is a story not as uncommon as you might think. We start with the voice of a cab driver:

"Twenty pound forty, if you please."

Minerva pays the fare, and gets out of the cab. From the trunk, she removes her two brown-leather suitcases (rubbed soft and shiny in some places; old, her mother's, displaying air-stamps from Morocco and Thailand, even despite the fact the luggage has never once ventured from the British Isles) and proceeds to walk up the lane to her sister's cottage. The looks are ordinary, comfortable in its blandness. Minerva knocks twice, and lets herself in.

Victoria Forester (née McGonagall, seven years her sister's senior) is resting in her chair in the living room, deep-set eyes closed and shadowed, fast asleep. Minerva steps in and takes off her shoes and places them in the cluttered closet when, suddenly, Victoria jerks awake, mumbles a gasp and looks about awkwardly, like one who had missed their stop on a bus, only to fall asleep again moments later, head nodding all the while. It's an awkward welcome after two years of separation, to say the least, and Minerva feels a touch unsettled. She counts three of these forty winks from the doorframe before she moves to shake her sleeping sister's shoulder gently.

Their greeting is awkward, but not without its warmth. They hug, they kiss, and Minerva at last sees what her older sister's illness has done to her now-distant beauty. Victoria still looks like a McGonagall (sharp nose, perfectly thin eyebrows, hard brown eyes and thin lips, a severe beauty that plays tribute to the falcon, or the fox) she just seems wearier than a McGonagall should. She looks, on a whole, like a drained blister; deeply withered in her seat, empty and hollow, only the shadow of her younger sister (who still, through all these years, watches her with admiration.) To describe Victoria is a thing of sadness; her once onyx-black hair is a paralyzed white, and those tender lips sag deeply at the corners. Purpled bags blend under her eyes like make-up or bruises, and she exists as a knot of wrinkles and sickness. She resembles, overwhelmingly, a female King Lear, wrapped and bound in a patchwork of blankets and sleep.

After a few minutes of talk, the luggage is deposited by the foot of the stairs and the two ladies walk to the outdoor patio, under Minerva's insistence, for a viewing of the garden. They indulge in small talk – How have you been et cetera – and walk arm in arm, younger supporting elder.

The temperature of the afternoon is pleasant: gone is the gauzy heat of the day, replaced by a new crispness in the air, clear viewing for a great handful of miles if you stand tall. The sun is presently dead light in the sky, having heated the world to its satisfaction, and begins to extinguish itself in a display or orange and gold, like a firework in slow motion. Minerva comments on this, and Victoria barks a laugh in reply:

"Have we really become so distant we have to talk about the weather?"

Minerva laces their fingers, gives a wry smile, and says: "I'll get you a chair."

The elder sister, settling herself awkwardly, watches as Minerva walks the yard, taking everything in like a fine wine. It's an expensive proposition, this garden, and very well-managed; a tribute of Victoria's late husband's vast wealth and spare time. Here; there exists vast knots of white daylilies; and there, drifting blood clots of carnations; by the patio, palm-wide magnolias; and by her feet, leafy chains of snapdragons, erupting from the earth like cones of mal-coloured fire, fuchsia and yellow.

But, despite these marvels, Minerva's eye is quickly drawn to the back of the garden. There, by the high stone wall, lies a large berth of thistle; as tall and thin as reeds, topped with the soft explosion of a purple flower, prickly with fuzz and painted all a milky green. The plants sway, minimally, in the wind and beat gently against the stone border, ticking in time like a conductor's baton, regular and patient, announcing the seconds. Minerva, with one hand, cups a flower, her thumb rubbing over the brush-like nib and tickling the bristles, teasing the thorns all the while. With this action, suddenly, memories of her youth comes rumbling and rushing back; not in images, not but rather in a wide, all-encompassing theme that seems to be titled, quite simply: "Childhood." No particular vision sweeps her, no thoughts of past loves or memories of her parents; all moments of fight and laughter and sex allude her, and she remains, just there, just simple, holding the flower of the thistle and thinking a word: childhood. The action is wonderful enough to bring tears to the corner of her eyes. She feels ashamed at her weakened state, but Minerva notches it down to the surprise of her ailing sister.

The hand releases the flower and returns to its partner, where they wring together gently, and the lady turns around:

"Your garden is beautiful, Victoria," Minerva says. "And thistles," a sigh, quite short, "very – appropriate." Minerva gives one of those little thoughtful sighs again, and steps neatly over to the well-kept rose garden, precisely as one might walk from painting to painting at an art exhibition (of Van Gogh, perhaps, for pleasing symmetry.) The roses are blossoming contentedly in pinks and reds, heavy blooms bending the stems into arches, and Minerva plucks a petal from the nearest flower (she likes the silky feel under her fingers, and she rubs it into a cone.) "Have you still got that man – oh, what is his name – Julian? Does he still tend to the garden?"

"Yes," emerges Victoria's tired reply, "he comes on Wednesdays. You'll see him then." She's sitting in an old claw-and-arm-chair, placed awkwardly at the edge of the lawn. The wooden feet dig into the grass, and it looks so frail it seems to stand up on principle alone, a fading relic of old dining rooms in their childhood home. Almost in compliment to the chair, Victoria seems to wither and bend, her spark of life running thin as the minutes pursue close behind.

"Can I get anything for you, Victoria?" Minerva asks, feeling disheartened, drawn painfully back into this trembling reality. "I was going to make tea, would you like me to bring a cup out for you?"

"I'm glad you've come. I like having your company" Victoria inhales, and it wavers and ripples to fullness. "But I am not an invalid. Not just yet. I can get things for myself."

"You aren't well, Victoria," Minerva replies flatly. "I will make us tea and order dinner, is that all right?" A pause, and a knowing turn in the corners of her lips. "I'm afraid I was never much of a cook."

"I can cook," Victoria replies, her voice shaking through the vowels.

"Nonsense, I won't hear of it." Minerva approaches her older sister in even strides, sliding a short-nailed hand on the woman's shoulder. "It's getting a bit cold, shall I help you inside?"

Victoria sighs, and nods. "Hand me my cane."

Tea is a quiet experience, served in china cups with a gold foil rim and curlicue design. The tea is too strong, bitter on the tongue, and the sugar overcompensates for it. The sisters sip stiffly, and they both leave their drinks unfinished.

"I'm sorry," Minerva explains, "I've not used a kettle and leaves in a long time. I'm afraid I've rather lost my touch."

"It's all right," Victoria replies, sisterly love warming through her words at last. "Where will you order dinner from?"

"There is that nice Hungarian place down the road. I thought perhaps goulash, and I'll pick up a nice red wine to go with it. Does that sound good?"

"I appreciate this, Minerva. I really do." Victoria embraces her sister's hand and kisses it gingerly; her lips are cold and dry on Minerva's skin. "You're very sweet to do this."

"It's perfectly all right."

Minerva sets out by her lonesome, dressed in a pale green blouse and pleated grey skirt which sways about her shins like water. She walks with the same severe manner as in the halls of Hogwarts – almost militarily; left, right, left – even despite her beautiful surroundings (luminescent cones of foxglove and cream daisies, even the stinging nettles look a wonderful mint-green in the yawning mouth of the country.) And then, for the first time that evening Minerva realizes she does not have her wand. Her forehead leaps to sweat, and she feels her hands tremble by her sides, fingers itching for the rod – when, just as suddenly as the panic appeared, it evaporates like a breath of pollen on the wind, leaving behind a mellow kind of residue: slouching towards freedom. She feels renewed; now she is just like any other woman, another dear Lady Windermere enjoying the breeze, enjoying the country – royalty perhaps, or even more pleasing, a peasant. And through this thought, her stride loosens and her shoulders seem to sag without the weight of the magic world upon them; she even seems to smile, though that could just be the lack of a usual frown. This feeling (free; common; plain; sweet) only lasts so long as she alone, for it sublimates into normalcy just as soon as she turns the corner into town (a squat stretch, gaping flat in the vale between two hills, only the elegant spires of churches piercing the monotonous two-storey landscape.) Upon entering the civilized district, Minerva's shoulders pull tight once more, her head snaps to righteous attention, and she frowns, attentively, once more. Proper and upright she walks, and, with an undue fervour, she wishes she had a hat.

The Hungarian restaurant, _Szent István_, is a short building, built very much like a man: that is, few windows and large brick. Minerva walks in, and the bells beside the door jingle her welcome. She notices in a mirror that her hair has become terribly frazzled from the breezy walk, so she smooths it down as best she can, sliding twin hands over her head and pressing it flat (she catches a reflection of this sight [silly] and gives a short clap of self-deprecating laughter.) Inside, the restaurant smells of stale spices and baking bread and cooking oil and sweet wine, now mingling with the summer-smells Minerva brings in gusts from the outside world – strong powers of mimosa and magnolia, the heady current of sea salt and acrid tang of petrol and motor oil, as jarring as a sour caper in a soft cheese.

Minerva orders with a gentle voice, and has only a second or two of trouble distinguishing the shiny muggle coins in payment (she might be magical, but she's not an idiot.) She orders of the waiter two large helpings of goulash (red and meaty, highlighted by olive-green bay leaves, on a bed of egg noodles with a side of steamed carrots and tomatoes – enough for tea and for the next day's dinner) and a bottle of brackish Hungarian red wine, bought under the assurance it would compliment the spices of the meal quite pleasantly.

Satisfied, she walks back to her sister's cottage, holding her bag of food and wine daintily in one hand. The sun having finally set over the period of her adventure, Minerva finds her road covered in long blue shadows, cavernous in scope and isolating the countryside in a blanket of sunless anxiety, a quality that personifies most summer nights. The leafy path from road to cottage is difficult to spot because of this gloaming, darkness presently caught like spider webs between the sentinel trees, but Minerva manages it all the same; calm competence to the last. In happy news, though, even despite this bleakness of night, the air remains warm and perfumed with all the day's activities (smelling, in turn, of upturned soil, seawater, lemonade, and sweat). Even the wind seems to remember the sunny afternoon, and carries with it the daylight echo of the cicadas. Minerva decides, on a rare whim, to dine outdoors.

Entering the cottage, she sees her sister in the living room, fast asleep on a dark-wood rocking chair, thick with blankets and lethargy. Her head lolls gently to the side, and her eyes flutter with dream. While Victoria's chest rises with shallow breath, the rest of her body remains completely stationary, betrayed only by the nearly imperceptible rock of the chair. She seems sick, even now, in this moment of peace; there seems to stick a blue-gauze of illness, like peel on her skin. Her eyelids are thin and translucent, almost letting through the colour of her presently rolling eyes. Her whole, precious frame seems like it could be torn apart by a child, like so much paper. She will die, and Minerva realizes this at last.

Sighing gently, Minerva wills herself away from the sad-sleeping woman and brings their meal into the kitchen. Taking out one of the two Styrofoam containers of food (the other goes in the fridge, for Victoria to eat at her own discretion), Minerva unloads half of the contents onto one of the china plates. It steams hazily, and the mingled smell of spices quickly encompasses the room like a thick fog. After a few minutes of play with the bottle opener, the quiet lady finally manages to undo the cork and pours herself a shallow dollop of wine. Glass in one hand, plate in the other, she slides open the screen door with her foot and settles comfortably at the patio table.

Minerva eats in silence, chewing and drinking slowly, savouring the mingled tastes of her meal: the sourness of the wine and the aggressive bite of paprika in the goulash combining to make an entirely pleasing combination. She is only mildly disturbed by the noise of the neighbours (clinking, and occasionally smashing of glass; the braying laugh of teenagers and the noises that come about because of adolescence, the occasional obscenity piercing the veil of her relaxation, only for the chatter to recede into swampy darkness once more.) The night meets her expectations, and she gives a tiny little sigh.

Time ticks onwards.

Finishing her meal, Minerva withdraws her book (from Victoria's collection of muggle literature; this one a plain-covered copy of Virginia Woolf's _Orlando_) and reads into the empty hours of the night. It seems the neighbours (all but confirmed to be rowdy teenagers) reply to her challenge, and stay awake in parallel, though the earlier near-overwhelming din of party gradually falls into the lower registers, only the odd prickling laugh slipping through to ruffle the woman's mild expression.

Time ticks onwards.

It is beyond three in the morning and cool when Minerva collects her things and goes to sleep. Crossing through the living room, she finds Victoria still resting in her chair, shadows spilling over her face like a mourner's veil, or else clots of tar painted over her eyes and mouth. Her chest huffs like an old cat's, and her hand twitches on occasion to fulfill this image of sister reduced; she's a textbook (or, perhaps, romance book) example of ailing woman, fitting it in colour and quality, and it's nearly unbearable to watch. Minerva gives her a quiet kiss on the forehead (cold skin, and dry) and nods a silent goodnight before retiring to her ersatz-bedroom, once belonging to Victoria's long-departed son. There, the younger lady unpacks her things neatly into the drawer before changing into her nightdress and sliding into an empty sleep.

She has no dreams, and even if she did, they would have been dry and unremarkable.

  


*

  
Minerva awakes to find the sun shining in deep pools over the bed, her body warmed considerably in fresh summer heat. She dresses thoughtfully for the weather (knee-length skirt of cream, white cotton blouse and her floppy sunhat; wand tucked neatly into the waistband of her skirt) and withdraws to the kitchen to make breakfast for her sister.

The rocking chair is empty, and Minerva assumes her sister had gone to bed sometimes during the night. Her suspicions are confirmed upon putting her ear to the bedroom door (snuffling sounds of sleep emerging from beyond; still living, still breathing.)

Minerva attends to her hunger, and decides to make a breakfast of toast and orange marmalade, providing with it a fresh sliced peach, and coffee. The coffee is a thrill to make; she fingers her wand in preparation to magick the drink into existence, but a sudden urge for simplicity overwhelms her and she decides to prepare it in a conventional fashion. She boils the water in the kettle, uses teaspoons and measuring tools for preparing the filter, and watches with pleasure as the water drips through and fills the waiting pot with steaming, staunchly aromatic coffee. Minerva smiles indulgently, pleased with the simplicity of her sunny morning, and drinks the fruit of her labours (mildly bitter, but still enjoyable) with her breakfast.

Following the small meal, Minerva washes the dishes, daring to reveal her cheer by humming a nameless tune. She dries the plates with care and places them in the dark-wood cabinets as quietly a she can, worried for her sister's stake. The young sister feels calm, and at ease with the world for her pleasing work, and so decides to spend the afternoon reading her novel until Victoria wakes, at which time she shall launch into dinner preparations with the same ingenuity she did the coffee.

Collecting her book and her hat, Minerva proceeds outdoors with fresh calm and happiness. She notices at once that the noise of teenagers is gone (oddly and suddenly missed), only the half-hearted thrumming of bugs interrupting the calm of her day. In reference to the weather, the almanac records that the day was dry and hot, conventionally summer, and thus not worth dwelling on further. Dragging one of those odd plastic reclining chairs into the lawn, Minerva settles herself awkwardly under the shade of one of the immense oak trees that edge the property, and puts on her sun hat, basking in the warm air of the morning and the promise of a lazy afternoon.

Time ticks onwards.

After only a short while of inattentive reading, the teenage noise returns, and Minerva feels comfortable in her disapproval. The noise is significantly less, consisting of only two voices, and no matter how hard she strains, she cannot make hide nor hair of the talk. Observing the murmur, Minerva decides the speakers are boys, but beyond that they just exist simply as shadowed next-door equations, unsolvable for the time being.

We shall skip forward a half hour as Minerva occupies this period solely with reading, only pausing on occasion to catch a moment of her neighbours' conversation (a subtle trait inherited from her profession, certainly.) Ultimately, she is not long into her book before she's interrupted, in this situation by a spontaneous lesson in ballistics: a checkered black-and-white football is sent flying over the stone wall, which lands with a terrible smack on the lady's shin. Minerva gives a strangled yelp and sparks from her chair, brandishing the fallen football as she does so.

"Excuse me!" she calls out to her faceless neighbours. Minerva's lingering brogue rends her words as harsh as a razor's edge, and that feeling of military educator returns; she feels all too much at home. "Excuse me!" she calls again, "what do you think you're doing?" She strides to the wall of the garden and stands below it, as if willing the structure to fold under her command.

"Sorry, Mrs. Forester!" comes the familiar boyish voice from beyond the wall. "I'll come fetch it."

"This isn't Victoria, this is her sister," Minerva says harshly.

"Sorry –" Two hands appear on the top of the wall and – _hoist_ – a boy lands with great force on atop the barrier, sitting backwards on the wall before spinning to lock eyes with Minerva: "Holy fuck."

"Wood?" Minerva says bluntly, her face blanking into a bare canvas. "What are you –"

"Holy _fuck_ – I – I mean – uh, sorry, Professor. I mean. Min – McGona – Professor."

"Mister Wood." She recovers from the shock quickly, giving him a familiar frown (perfected by generations of educators, able to blend in equal measure disapproval, irritation, and comfort, a cocktail of mixed feelings.) She holds out his football. "_You're_ my sister's neighbour, then. I thought I heard teenagers last night."

"Christ, I thought Victoria sounded familiar, but you had different names and I just –"

"My sister kept her husband's name following his death," she says shortly, feeling the familiar red burst of anger returning to her cheeks. Minerva feels oddly naked in just her blouse and skirt, and takes out this awkwardness on the boy: "Are you going to take your ball?"

"Sorry, Professor," Oliver says, jumping off the stone wall and landing with innate skill beyond the bed of thistle. Brushing his hands off gingerly, he stands at full height and full smile before his teacher.

He's of a type, certainly; baggy blue-and-yellow rugby style t-shirt, ripped at the shoulder and hanging over the round of that muscle, loose khaki shorts torn in all sorts of places (a dark glimpse at his thigh here, and there), no socks or shoes, a sweaty face with a small, upturned nose, unremarkable lips (familiar in their sameness, thin and boyish), short public school hair that teases the line of his brow, and hazel eyes comforting in their shallowness. His collar bones are things to behold, with divots like half-walnut shells, and as delicate as they are solid. They exist very much like a bone-frame for his pleasant face (an agreeable face, that is, not striking or stunning but appealing in its childish familiarity.) His wrists, too, are charming: strong, though the twin-channels of tendons give them a wrought-iron feel, decorative and peculiar. He's large, to be sure, though burly is far from accurate. In truth, though Oliver is quite a muscular boy, all broad shouldered and strong, he seems to have the quality of a dancer to him, an overtone of agility and litheness that is perhaps transmitted through the inch of flat skin exposed between shirt and low-hanging shorts, or maybe the dark ridges of his hips (for no one but mothers and paedophiles can truly understand where the variables lie in a boy, what physicality makes him so – Minerva doesn't understand, Minerva can't understand.) Presently he is sweaty, an aspect he and his kind (boys) turn easily into an illegitimate kind of beauty: sports child through and through, he makes uncleanliness a fine art. His sweaty hair and dirty hands should be revolting, but are instead presented as roguish and romantic, an emblem of boyhood and impossibly appealing. In summary, these are his most striking physical characteristics, and the most worthwhile aspects of his sixteen years (why describe his knees, for instance, or his ears? – common and uninteresting, if you were curious.) In fact, there is very little doubt that one might find these traits in any boy in any school in any country of the world, for Oliver is merely an archetype, the pinnacle of his age. Pause, and take him in. Yes, in noticing these features, one is quick to realize that he is a far more complex equation than other gents his age – his posture more easy, his phrasing straddling the border between interest and apathy – certainly more enigmatic than his friends or his peers; Minerva's Gryffindors, that is, the boys of brave. Oliver is a self-proclaimed Tom Sawyer, like all of them boys of course, containing energy and immorality and ignorance in spades. There's something special about Oliver – we all know it – and he seems to posses something extra; an added gene, or chromosome, or what have you. Can we confine it to a word? No, not XY or XX(X); just a single word. Yes, we can, and that is quite simply: sexuality. More importantly than that: a sexuality he _knows_ he possesses. You can see it now, in the tilt of his hip, or the way his tongue tempts the corner of his lips; it's there, oversexed and brilliant, there for all the world to deny at its pleasure. Self-awareness makes him all the more interesting, and the intensity of this precociousness proves to be his most appealing quality.

All this in that fragment of the moment between offer and acceptance of the football.

"I suppose I'll see you around, then," Oliver says, giving Minerva a smirk that makes her want to take thirty points from Gryffindor.

She cocks an eyebrow. "I sincerely hope not."

And there, Oliver smiles broad and genuine, and she wants to give Gryffindor fifty instead.

Minerva watches him as he takes the ball, tosses it back over the fence, and with a crazy, flying leap, throws himself at the wall. The wild jump carries him over the thistles and he manages to get a fingerhold on the far side of the ledge. Like a superhero, or acrobat, he scampers up the surface and straddles the border, turning to give her a look and a farewell: "Well, see ya then." He swings his leg over to the opposite side and jumps down (she hears the soft smack as he hits dirt on the other side, and the conversation with his nameless companion starts anew: "You'll never guess who I saw next door –" it fades into nothingness as the boys, Oliver and his friend, go indoors.)

Oddly content, Minerva returns to her chair and her book, and continues to read the afternoon through. The remaining hours collapse with ease, for they exist merely as an afterthought to the pivot of her day; an epilogue to those few minutes with Oliver. The boy, you know, he exists as the pinnacle, an epicenter; for time, for feeling, for the waxing and waning of her cheer. He is sufficient, despite that he exists merely as a fragment in the long, hot hours: the ball of his ankle and the soft bob of his Adam's apple – a minute of sight is enough for a full day's thought. It continues, downwards, to the casual slag of his shoulders, the fragile line of hair stretching from the coil of his shorts to where his navel lives under the hem of his ragged shirt, the way his shorts hang loosely off his butt, to the shallow of his back made a beautiful scoop. Good God, the boy is enough for a month.

The sun fades with excellence, growing into a fierce crescendo of orange light before collapsing, dead on arrival, behind the distant purple hills. Night is shepherded in by Venus, smiling, and then with many, many stars, each opening like the hundred blinking eyes of Argus. Minerva sneaks inside and finds Victoria to be sleeping still, so she embarks on dinner (poached eggs, smoked salmon and cream cheese) before returning once more outside, with a goblet and yesterday's bottle of red.

By evening, she has finished half of the bottle as well as her novel, _Orlando_. Filling a new glass of wine, she begins Mrs. Woolf's equally unpleasant _To the Lighthouse_, and sets her sights on a silent evening.

Sadly, it is not to be. By ten o'clock, The Boy reappears. A soft flutter of wind ushers him upon the wall, and he smiles roguishly and bare, legs folded over the edge of the barrier and kicking at the tops of thistle: "Hello, professor." A sparrow on a perch.

Minerva, soft and startled, puts down her book and turns to the darkened garden and towards the image of her thoughts. The stars and moon are enough to illuminate the young satyr; he is shirtless and dry, still in those khaki shorts, his hair adopting that disheveled quality that accompanies alcohol. Minerva frowns with automatic disapproval, settling her lips into a solid line. Bent over like he is, elbows on his knees and head in his hands, Oliver's flat belly is turned in many folds, a startling shadow of J. Dallesandro, like thoughtful prostitution. With a wonderful, lazy jump, Oliver lands cat-like on the grass and treads with bare feet to his frowning neighbour.

"I – I forgot to ask you. Earlier, I mean." He flushes broadly, and smiles. "I have a Quidditch match tomorrow. Nothing official, just a local league. I thought maybe you could come and watch me. I'd like that." Just then, he stretches and yawns. The movement is so open and filled with placid beauty and boyish wit (a wit belonging solely to the body) that one can scarcely deny the request. Minerva finds, to instinctual dismay, a flush in her cheeks, and quickly she darts her eyes from the boy, eyeing nervously the webbed garden.

"It's inappropriate," Minerva replies. "I'm sorry, Wood." She looks back at moon-licked boy and shrugs. "Perhaps your friends will attend."

Oliver shakes his head. "They're playing too."

"There you have it," Minerva continues, relieved for an excuse, "I can't show favouritism, and there will be other students there."

"You could wear a disguise." A glimmer in his eyes, loose and wild.

"Pardon me?"

He reaches into one torn pocket and withdraws a large set of sunglasses, patterned like fake turtle-shell. "Try this on." He tosses them, and Minerva catches the glasses one-handed. She looks at them critically, and tries them on to humour the hip-tilting boy. They're large, Onassis glasses paying tribute to the sixties, but they are, surprisingly, a sufficient disguise. "You look great. Put a hat on with them. There – you look like Katharine Hepburn like that, you really do."

Minerva cocks an eyebrow (unseen under the spectacles) and says harshly: "This is ridiculous." And then, with parental softness, "You're a nice lad, Wood, but this is entirely inappropriate. I would appreciate keeping our meetings at a minimum. I think it would be for the best."

Oliver frowns, but isn't beaten quite yet. "You're not just a teacher, Professor. And this is just Quidditch – We could scout out some new talent. I mean – we're neighbours now, aren't we? – I mean, I'm your captain, aren't I?"

Minerva shifts a fragment, and catches his appealing look. "I'm sorry, Wood." She sounds uncertain, her borders under siege by the boyish grin and the flesh of his tummy (as flat as stretched canvas – Christ, those thoughts again, he's a student for word's sake.)

Rebuttal from the half-naked boy: "I'd really appreciate if you –"

"Wood, I said no." Still gentle, but forceful, intentional.

Oliver sighs and bites his lip. Just then, he nudges with his hip the edge of the table and his knee touches her's. It's a moment like an orgasm, the tipping and near-spill of the wine, the outline of his cock in those shorts (that picture is imagined; he's actually soft right now, under his boxers, it's just the illusion of the folds) the het-up slap of his feet on the patio tiles – it's like a moment of release, or maybe of invitation: for biting and ruler sticks and ties around the bedpost. Yeah, just the tilt of his hips; Oliver's flirt is a promise. "Just keep the glasses. I'll see you – later. Well, sometime." He merges back in the shadows, flies back to and over the wall, and disappears.

  


*

  
The Quidditch match transpires with great success. Interestingly, the proceedings are watched over by a celebrity: Miss Katherine Hepburn, returned from the grave. Hallelujah.

  


*

  
They attend a café following the match, and, under Oliver's insistence, the couple sits outdoors. They order, and Oliver pays, dismissing Minerva's objections with a lazy-waving hand. With drinks and muffins, they set themselves at a table.

Minerva, still sporting the glasses and hat, looks at him over her espresso: "I have to say, you played marvelously out there."

"Thanks," Oliver says, wiping cappuccino foam from his lip and licking it from his finger. "You really think so?"

"Yes."

He smiles. "Thanks." A pause. "Really? It's kind of hard to –"

Sternness, testing the shallows of impatience. "You were very good, Oliver. You always are."

A flush of pride, and then, playful: "You called me Oliver."

Minerva shrugs shallowly and takes another short sip of her drink, nodding her head in an agreeable way.

Oliver falters at this display, but soon resumes his fun: "I guess I was just on my game today. Maybe because you were watching." He takes another sip, and licks the froth with a small pink tongue. "You're my good luck charm." No reply. "I'm glad you came."

Minerva sighs witheringly, and sips again at her coffee. Subtlety was never a boy's strong point; but she holds her tongue, and feels better for it.

Crisp and clear, the air breathes with them, holding on its surface the green plates of leaves, rustling about feet and turning scarves into whirlwinds. The brackish sea air invades the lungs easily, and throughout the town there exists a kind of sailor's pleasure, something vivid and natural, a taste of the sea for landlubbers. Images of white-painted waves and scourgish gulls are immediately conjured, flourishing in mind a Joseph Turner painting, and Oliver smiles and sniffs dog-like at the breeze.

"I love summer," Oliver explains needlessly. He looks bright, a crimsoned-youth in this light, blushing and flushing and coy. The sweat of his sport is dried and gone, leaving a strange and enjoyable smell about him, musky and sweet. The energy of the afternoon seems to have done him good, as his whole body thrums with eagerness and desire (to please, or otherwise.) He's delighted by simple things; the chirp of a sparrow, or a newspaper sent billowing towards the clouds – laughing and remarking like a foolish tour guide each triviality that strikes his fancy. This youthful idiocy betrays his sixteen years, and plays more to a child than the form of man-boy he currently occupies, cusping on the edge of maturity.

A gentleman across from the two lights up a cigarette, and Oliver's eyes glow with need.

"Do you think he'll give me one?" Oliver asks in a whisper. "What nationality do you think he is?"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Well, different nations treat cigarettes very differently. The British, they'll give you a light but won't give you a cigarette. Americans won't even give you a light. Italians never smoke, and Spanish smoke too much but only rubbishy cigarettes so you wouldn't want those. The French, you've got to get a Frenchie, they smoke really nicely and they'll give you one if you ask. Do you think he's French? He looks a bit French, I think."

Minerva observes the rambling monologue with interest, and finds herself caught in his web of generalization, even going so far as to sneak a look at the man in question (by his hair and nose, most likely French.) The conversation, despite its shallowness, is compelling, and Minerva plays against her better judgment: "He looks a bit French."

Enticed by her consent, Oliver continues: "Now, if you want to break it down by religion, Protestants just plain don't smoke, but Catholics smoke and, if you ask nicely, sometimes will part with a fag. Muslims only do those hookah things, and never mind asking a Jew for anything –"

"That's a bit shallow, don't you think?" Minerva interjects, not sure if she should disapprove or encourage this ill-conceived-slash-charming banter.

"I'm a Jew and I wouldn't give anyone a fag," Oliver says with a smile.

"You're Jewish?" Minerva observes him steadily, like there is something now that was missing before. "I didn't know that."

"Well, how could you? But, yeah. Sort of. My mum, she was Jewish. German Jew, fled during the war. She was the muggle. My dad was a Welshman, Catholic wizard, strange fellow. But Jewishness – er, I don't think that's the word –"

"Judaism."

"Yeah, yeah, Judaism. It travels through the mother. And Catholicism goes through the father. So I'm one-hundred percent Jewish and one-hundred percent Catholic." He smiles with this story, and Minerva smiles despite herself. There's a machine-gun quality to his speaking, and it kind of adopts an internal rhythm that makes it wonderful and easy to follow, almost as pleasing as poetry in its delivery. But the story isn't over: "My dad always had a joke he used to tell us; here, listen to this, he always said, Oliver, you have to choose – you're either a Jew or you're not – you can't be – wait for it – Jew-_ish_." He laughs at his own joke, which is charming, and Minerva is incited to laugh as well. It's lame, definitely, but there's something pleasing in how colloquial it is, warming in its stupidity, a true wax-seal of student-hood. If it was told by anyone else, it would have been ugly, but there is a terrible kind of innocence to Oliver, and Minerva can't help but laugh.

"Here, I'll go ask him now."

Oliver returns with two cigarettes. "He's Scottish. He gave me two." He gives a big grin. "Want one?"

"I don't smoke." She wants to tell him he shouldn't either, but the image of Oliver smoking was an immediate one, and beautiful. Intimate. His nostrils flare, and his lips seem to breathe with red. The smoke slipping from his mouth slides like ropes of silk and becomes a mask of sudden mannishness. A deceptive suaveness overwhelms him, and the laughter and childishness that came from giddy sport seems to drift away like debris with the smoke; now he's _supercool_, baby-faced gang-banger ordering vodka martinis and a condom to go. The other cigarette is tucked goofily behind his ear and the whole image is destroyed.

"I don't smoke that often," he explains, "only with coffee, or wine. It's really very," he releases a mouthful of smoke, which convalesces as it fades into the summer air, "pleasant. Very relaxing." He breathes another gust, and releases it in smog. "What time is it?"

"Nearly seven."

"Would you like to get dinner?"

Minerva frowns, but something strange possess her. Maybe it is the familiar smell of cigarettes, or the warming touch of where Oliver's bare knee touches her own, or perhaps it's the nearly alcoholic smell of the sea – but she nods, and says: "Yes, I believe I would like that."

They stop back home, to check on Victoria (still sleeping.) Minerva leaves her dinner on the stove, placing a neat tinfoil cover over top, and closes the blinds on the windows. Finished this, they walk to the village once more, the sun fading into night and the crickets taking charge of the cicadas' abandoned job.

Their dinner (herbed chicken for Minerva and a goat cheese and spinach calzone for Oliver) is pleasant, and Minerva orders a smooth wine for it. They chat, they play; Oliver is enchanted with the diagonal shafts of light patterning the table cloth, and his feet often get tangled with Minerva's. The companions sit in a secluded kind of booth, rounded and red leather, hidden by throngs of ferns that seem to decorate these middle-class type establishments. Let us pause for a moment, and take in the couple:

Oliver is charming in his button-up shirt and messy hair; a true boy, totally out of place in this cowed establishment, but fantastic in his freshness – a touch of fantasy to this blind-faced and sleepy town. But we've dwelled too long on him in the past, and if truth be told, he's dampened by this light, un-illuminated and cold.

Instead, at last, let us describe Minerva McGonagall, Oliver's beauty having being momentarily subdued. Oliver regards the woman adoringly, like an idol; Hestia and Demeter and Athena – consumed by her presence rather than her looks. Certainly she's attractive; there is little denial in this regard – sharp, in tongue and look, with a small pointed nose, thin eyebrows, small lips, and cheekbones as sharp as knives, you know the type. Wrinkles crease the corners of her mouth, and crows have marched the lines of her eyes; this somehow serves to further illustrate her beauty, a wonderful kind of knowledge added to the cocktail of her appeal; defiance and vim of her behaviour in strict contrast to her slowly aging form. She is beautiful as a sculpture is beautiful: immaculately designed, far more striking than just the sum of her parts (granite and marble.) It's really very easy to get caught in the web of her details; hair, hands, soft nape of her neck; too easy, in fact, and we must look beyond them. Instead, one must absorb the whole image. She's slim and tall, playing very much like the scope of Big Ben – stately and constructed, resonant and iconic. She exists, too, as an image of British gentility, a true Lady of the Isles; Victorian; controlled. Every hair seems in place, every word carefully chosen, all behaviour carefully regulated. Each of her emotions is kept, like spices, in a bottle, only uncorked for special occasions; a dash of excitement, a pinch of disapproval, a clove of happiness. She is Clarissa Dalloway – vehemence and loneliness palsied into a perfect image of stateliness.

Minerva pays for dinner, and Oliver thanks her with a hand to hers. They walk home in that in-between stage; not quite touching, but brushing close together. Their hands (Oliver's right and Minerva's left) touch, fractionally, as they walk, swaying back and forth to brush, pinky against thumb, or sometimes palm and palm, withdrawing with a swing as quickly as they touched.

They arrive at Minerva's home and find Victoria's dinner untouched, and the lady still sound asleep in her chambers.

"What's wrong with her?" Oliver asks quietly, sitting on the couch like an awkward house guest, perched rather than seated.

Minerva, making the tea (magically, now is not time for the simplicity), shakes her head: "I'm not sure. She won't tell me, she only says it's – there's very little hope. She has medicine, but I don't understand what it is, either. I'm afraid I'm rather in the dark about it. Oh, come to the kitchen table for tea, that couch is very expensive."

They sit at the table and drink their tea slowly. Oliver loads his with milk and sugar, diluting it to a grey-cream concoction as sweet as rock sugar. Minerva takes hers dry and strong. An unpleasant silence sets like a layer of silt over the teacher and student, and Oliver amuses himself through humming. Minerva watches him play mindlessly, licking at the edges of his cup for drips, kicking his feet about the table legs like a toddler. Their tea finished, silence now developing into a thick blanket, Oliver resigns himself to watching Minerva wash the dishes. At last, he breaks:

"So – is your sister – um – a muggle?"

Minerva shakes her head. "No."

"Is she a – a squib then?"

Minerva turns the water off and puts the dishes on a tea towel to dry. She sighs, and turns to look at Oliver impatiently: "No, she's not a squib either."

Oliver frowns. "I don't get it then."

"She chooses not to do magic."

Oliver looks at her sidelong and bites his lower lip, a thing he often seems to do when puzzled or worried, and a thing Minerva had scarcely picked up on until they began to spend time together. It withers her, easily, and her impatience melts into affection.

"She chooses not to, it's that simple." It's an easy lie – oh, yes, a lie, Victoria is really just a squib (such shame, or so Minerva was told, much like how she was told to lie) – but Minerva suddenly feels bad in telling it to this boy. Oliver nods gently, and his eyes shift towards a quality of sadness and apology, and guilt engulfs her like hellfire, but she holds her ground as a teacher is wont to do; she sniffs sharply, as the role requires, and she gestures towards the patio door: "Shall we sit outside?"

Oliver nods his consent, and they go outdoors.

You understand now that the moment is upon them. They've skirted the issue for the day, ignoring the complicated physicality with food or drink or awkward talk. But now, their hands empty, fiddling and knitting, and their faces an uncertain mask of apprehension; it is inevitable what should happen. Minerva sits on a wrought-iron chair painted a dull white, and Oliver contents himself to sit in the grass by her feet – it is a waiting game, a breaking game. They talk more, mindless banter that barely seems to scratch the surface of anything but the basest of topics (food, weather, politics.) In reality, it's a matter of opinions – Minerva is locked to Oliver, to every flinching twitch of his muscles; her heart thuds in mal-rhythm with his movement, and her mind seems uniquely focused on the spot where his casually stretched foot (bare, and beautiful, with an aristocratic arch that leads to the French curve of his calf) touches her leg, seemingly thoughtless. The boy, too, is pinned, like a Catherine wheel, to the woman's every sigh, every word – his patience wound-unwound-and-rewound with every fleeting remark in those anger-flashing eyes (the pale colour of thunderheads, or a washed rind cheese.)

A reasonable description of the meeting is unrealistic – to describe the hot fury that lines the insides of Oliver's cheeks is one thing, but to give true colour to the fluidity of his movement, to the determination in his eyes as he rises to standing and leans into his straight-backed Professor; therein lies our problem. It's not mechanical, but it's not natural; it exists somewhere in the realms of mythology, like dead lovers acting through them – pushing Oliver to move in, lower, sweeter; to kiss her lips, like it's the simplest, easiest thing in the world. This happens in just a matter of seconds; imagine him there, sitting on the grass, leaning back on those big hands, his head cocked to one shoulder, smiling warmly as Minerva describes Irish literature, or what have you (he's not listening, but rather watching the magnificent way her lips move and the way her tongue flicks the back of her teeth on certain sounds.) He's that particular kind of boy, mischievous even away from mischief; a living embodiment of Prokofiev's Peter, or Tom Sawyer, or any boy's boy. The great haunches of his shoulders are taut with muscle, and we soon find Minerva's eyes wandering that line of his collar, tracing the shadow to the small divot of his chest, perfect and smooth, waiting for the flat press of a tongue – the words she speaks grow more indistinct, like wisps of cotton, sound and fury amounting to nothing, and then Oliver stands – Imagine him there, the buttons of his shirt only done to mid-chest, the line of pale hair that stretches down his legs to the horseshoe-like threshold over his ankle. And then it all collapses, falling inwards as he bends to Minerva and kisses her, first fleetingly, but then longer as he folds into her lips because she doesn't push him away.

His shirt is peeled from him; unbuttoned and felled to the bricked floor. God, to describe that chest – the expanse of skin, nipples soft like drained blisters, the shadowed grooves of his ribs, and his shoulder blades, fleshy wings. And around his waist, the flourished inch of flannelled boxers disappearing under the beltless collar of his shorts, too perfect an image of youthful rebellion; tactless dressing only revealed by his own intimacy.

Pulling away from the kiss, Oliver tugs at the button of his shorts and undoes the fly. He kicks them off eagerly, and clearly enjoys his own nudity compared to the restraint of the foolish mortal invention of clothes. He's standing in his boxers now (the outline of his cock is easy, and it's not your imagination showing that it presses into the folds of the cloth and raises the cotton with impatience.) His hands are possessed by the buttons of Minerva's blouse, mother-of-pearl shining in the candlelight, and he easily does away with her top, expert fingers finding the slits of the cloth and unbuttoning them with a ceaseless ease. Her bra is white, half-cup solid and half-cup lace, and now it's Oliver's turn to admire. As beautiful as his body is, can the form of an eager jock ever compare to the curved appeal of a woman? No, no, and no again. Oliver understands; he's seen his boys naked, even once sucking a cock, his hands grasping at the chest of the boy as they came together; but, Lord no, this is so much better (what? Yes – a virgin!) He's entranced by the skin of her breasts; God! as pure as polished marble, two ready handfuls, freckled at the tops and increased with a blush. She's like a fucking Venus de Milo with arms that content themselves to embrace Oliver's waist (her thumbs puckering in the divot of his belly button.) She's slim, though round at the hips and breasts. Where is her age? At the corner of her lips, and eyes, feathered creases near her collar bones, and at the press under her arms. To be honest, it's more of an afterthought. But, oh, yes, he takes off her brassiere, and his hands touch her warm breasts with hesitance, only conceded to move there when Minerva's hands crawl under the hem of his boxers in exchange.

Here, Oliver strips naked; awkward – he has to jump on one foot to hook the coil of his boxers from one leg, and his hard cock bounces as he does so. A moment on his body: his hips, curved, as exhibited before, sweet shadows and a small tussle of hair. His cock is beautiful, as far as cocks go (vulgar, per usual, but with a certain kind of ashamed appeal.) We would measure it if we could, but from sight it can fill a fist and a half happily, which Oliver himself displays in a bit of teasing play.

Minerva leaves her chair, and sets herself gently on the cold-iron of the patio table, a sturdy thing that rocks only slightly as she settles herself back. Oliver, licking his palm and touching it to the length of his cock, approaches, and Minerva eyes him sharply, as a hawk might watch a mouse. He slides a hand up her leg and meets the hem of her skirt with the waist. His hands there (Minerva's own now testing the round of his cock, fingers plying at the head curiously, sending a haphazard Morse code of pleasure coursing from his dick to his stomach) he tugs down the coil of her undergarments, and eases them finally to the ground He would grin, but he's flushed a fiery red and too ashamed to meet the eyes of his mistress, and instead pushes in, towards her, Minerva's guilty hands guiding him – ahh, inside.

The one short leg of the table bangs the ground in a heartbeat rhythm as it rocks. Minerva holds Oliver close, suddenly, as his cock slides and moves, pressing his head against her neck (he takes in her scent, spice and wine, and she his; sweet dust and grass) and nipping at the bone. They clutch, as their bodies course and flow together, blending like water as he pumps towards her, the muscles of his butt clenching and her eyes open and furious.

He sounds like he's in pain with all those little whimpers, but from the weakness of his knees and the hollow sweat that creases the lines of his skin (beading endearingly at his forehead, greasing his hair into tendrils) it's clear he feels otherwise.

And then, at last, the little death. Minerva's legs tighten against Oliver's waist, like a serpent, and Oliver gives one final, pulsing thrust, tears squeezed from the corners of his eyes as he comes. His entire body feels drawn to that one place at his waist – his organs clenched, his blood drained to the triangle of his pelvis, his everything forced down through his cock. He imagines, just at the moment he is devoured, of a wheat field (yeah, flowing waves of amber); it lasts for no more than a second, just an out-of-place fraction in his mind – and then he comes and empties and whimpers and collapses into her.

They pant and sweat and cool down, as these things happen. Minerva holds him tight about the shoulders, and Oliver's face is pressed up against her breasts, touched with sweat (his and hers.) After a few minutes of this sexual limbo, Minerva frees her arms from the boy, and they part. They each feel cold and clammy, and Oliver is noticeably shaky in the knees. He rescues his boxers from the grass, and slides them on, handing Minerva her bra as she does. Minerva dresses herself easily; revolution! her shame is exiled, like Trotsky, perhaps offed by an ice axe in Mexico. Oliver watches her in afterglown-admiration.

"God you're beautiful," he says, enraptured. He enjoys now his own nudity, and he sits in the cool grass dressed in only his boxers. His body seems even more appealing after full use; the varnish of "perfection" stripped away to reveal a pinking glow of sex and heat, very human, charming like a smirk is charming.

How could she let herself; how could she fail, how could she involve herself, indulge herself, betray herself – it comes like a wave, a breaking tsunami of guilt that threatens to overwhelm her; tears spring to her eyes, and her stomach rolls and she sits on her chair and holds back her fight.

They're silent for a little bit. There is a feeling of overly-tense company, like guests who do not know when to leave, but the sweet air and whispers of wind mask this easily – masks the roiling grief of weakness, which threatens to drown her. After a minute of silence, Minerva resumes her reading – to calm her, steady her mind – and Oliver lies back, bare, on the grass and tries to count the stars (he divides the sky up into sections – gotta do this right, you know – and tries to do it by this grid pattern; he fails; though, why is it that whenever you try to count the stars you always end up getting lost at twenty-five? Maybe there's only twenty-five stars up there and the rest are all illusions.)

"I've got another Quidditch match tomorrow," Oliver says into the silence.

"I'm afraid I won't be able to come," comes a too-quick reply.

"What? Why?"

"Well – I'm having a garden party for Victoria and her friends. Lots of planning and such." She glances away, and it seems she has more than party planning on her mind.

"Oh. Well. Maybe next time then."

"I don't think so, Oliver," Minerva says, gently. "What we did wasn't – we shouldn't make this mistake again."

"What mistake?"

"This," she says, gesturing to his near-naked form. "I'm your Professor – more than that, I'm old enough to be your mother. Heavens, your grandmother." The tears crawl to the edges of her eyes – oh, hold them back.

"So? I think you're gorgeous –"

"I think it's time we said goodnight, Mr. Wood."

"Oh, Mi – Minerva, don't do this. Please, I swear, I won't tell anyone – this is – God, I've never been so happy. I love this, I love us. Don't kill it, please." It borders on pleading, but edges more easily towards that shameless, sweet-faced look; the kind that boys are born with, all puppy dog eyes and stinging-sweet lips.

"Goodnight, Oliver."

He looks at her once more, appealingly, but she gathers her book and her hat and goes inside, leaving him, shirtless and sad, behind.

Let us draw the curtains there, and resume the story tomorrow.

  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Witches, bitches, and britches.  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------

Victoria awakes late the next morning – what fortune! – emerging just as Minerva finishes making their breakfast of crepe and tea (enough to feed a small army.) They eat it, indulgently, with frequent smiles; whipped cream and strawberry jam on this one, and lemon and sugar on that.

"So," Victoria proposes with a hint of laughter to her sad voice, "who was that lad you dined with last night?"

Minerva flourishes a deep red and she nearly chokes on her food: "What? – What are you talking about?"

"Oh come now, I wasn't asleep all evening. I saw you with that neighbourhood boy. Who is he?"

"A –" truth and fiction whirl about her head like kite tails, "– student. From Hogwarts. He plays captain for the Gryffindor Quidditch team."

"My word, what luck." Victoria gives a coy smile; it's so nice to see such life in her face again, the fresh batteries of sleep and sisterhood revving her to gentility once more. "So you just discussed Quidditch, then?"

"Yes – and school, the beginning of term; he's one of my best pupils." The excuses fold and overlap and coalesce beautifully, though still without a shred of believability.

"He's very attractive," Victoria induces, weariness creeping back into her voice as the flush of excitement drains.

"I hadn't noticed."

"Oh, please," Victoria says, putting her hand over Minerva's and smiling widely, "you noticed. I dare say you more than noticed."

"I don't know what you're getting it," Minerva says with irritation, withdrawing from her sister and giving the whole world the sternest of looks. Silence for a moment; oh, fine, it's her sister, after all: "Okay," (dismissive), "perhaps I – tested the theory. It was inappropriate and I would appreciate if you didn't mention it again."

"He seemed quite smitten with you," Victoria continues.

"That's unfortunate for him, then." Hell was creeping upon her in inches. "I must say, it's all over now."

"Why?"

Minerva gives her a sharp look: "What do you mean, why?"

"I mean – why should you finish it?"

"He's a student! It's wholly inappropriate."

"It's summer. He's just a boy now, no studenthood to be seen. And he's hardly a boy at that. Almost a man. Got his growth on from what I've seen. Really, what harm is there in playing with him a bit longer?"

Minerva closes her lips into a thin line, and regards her sister severely. "He's sixteen."

"You're doing him a favour, Minerva. He has so many hormones clouding that little head of his, he's probably going to go mad if he doesn't get at least a little release once in a while. And what a shame if he does it all through masturbation. Really, if he doesn't learn to please a lady now, he'll be going through life thinking foreplay is some mystical tradition of times long past." Victoria smiles at her sister's discomfort. "And it's good for you, too. When's the last time you had a little something fawning for your attention? It will make you feel young. The water of life and all that."

"It's still inappropriate, no matter how much good – _questionable_ good – it will do."

"Who is he going to tell?"

Minerva replies with silence.

"He's not going to tell anyone, so what is the harm? It'll be good – trust me, much more entertaining than taking care of me. Besides, I could use a little excitement, live vicariously through you and such. Get my blood flowing a bit more."

"It's out of the question."

A bit of silence, enough to fit a comfortable sip of tea or two.

And then, Victoria: "I think I shall invite him to our party tonight."

"You will do no such thing."

"Oh, come on, Minerva. It will be wonderful!" Victoria seems suddenly energetic, and it's wonderful to see. "Look at me, I haven't been this active in years – we simply must invite him. It will do us all a world of good to have such a boy about us at dinner – all my friends will be just bursting with jealousy. Yes, I think I shall invite him."

"I forbid it." Minerva gets up from the table with their plates and glares scathingly at her sister. "It cannot happen. Don't you even think of it, don't you even _dare_."

  


*

  
The garden party is a smashing event. The backyard, stunning now in its overgrowth, plays host to a long tent, not made of canvas but rather long stretches of white gauze and lace. Bulbed lights flower on the poles of the canopy like little buds, all of their light getting tossed and tangled in the cloth and curtains, illuminating the place in the warmest of glows.

Victoria's friends – all widowed, elderly ladies (there but for the grace of God go I, Minerva contemplates sadly) – are smiling creatures, bent and hooked baba yagas with mouths full of kindness. They sit by the table, occasional flickers of youthful brilliance piercing the conquering veil of lethargy, and talk slowly amongst themselves (of, naturally, the weather.) Minerva stands like a spot of youth among them, still sharp and fierce, black-haired and unrelenting in her fight for everything. She's like a teenage daughter in their midst, and though depressing to contemplate, it does make her feel a bit happier.

Dinner (magicked; Minerva has neither the patience or the skill to make dinner for twelve) is prepared in the dining room, on silver trays steaming and beading and waiting for mouths. After a glass or two of white wine, and a glass or two of mindless talk, Minerva announces that it will now be served:

"I think I shall fetch dinner now," Minerva says with a smile.

"Oh, no need," Victoria says broadly. "My nephew will serve it."

Oh, dear reader, you know the game now, don't you?

"I don't have any sons –" Minerva says, wary of her sister's tricks (she hasn't been the subject of one for years, but she remembers her youth vividly, and now forebodingly.)

"Oh, no, my nephew on Hector's side. I still keep in touch with his family though he is with us no more."

And then, sure enough, out comes Oliver, silver tray in hand, coy smirk on his mouth. Minerva blanches, and turns back to her sister angrily. The circumstances stay her from comment, but if looks could kill England would now be underwater.

Oliver is stunning, dressed in imitation of a waiter, white shirt and black suit – have you ever seen a boy his age dressed finely? Awkward youth transforms easily into beauty; a suit can change even the strangest looking child into an object of wealth and admiration. The lines of the tailoring, the cut of it hugging his sides and slimming him into a figure of power – he's like a little baron, or prince, or infante or some kind. His ears are scrubbed clean and blushing and his hair is parted to the side and shines in the pale light. He plays the game well, and he rather seems to slide towards them, drifting above the air, than walk like a boy – the very image of submission and servitude.

He holds out the tray – roast beef, sliced thin and fanned into wide circles. He returns with pots of gravy, a tureen of rosemary-potatoes, and then a bowl of roasted chicken in a warm wine sauce; more – white asparagus served with dill and butter, cucumbers sliced with vinegar and pepper, mashed pumpkin with a dollop of cream in the center. The food is piled high on the table, and despite the smells of food and comfort, it is the boy who is the true centerpiece. Victoria regards him with joy, like a proud mother, while there exists a kind of subtle pleasure in the looks of the other ladies. Young chap, young lad, beautiful and broad, with the kind of face that promises innocence, and the kind of look that promises anything but. Again, that sexuality – ever present, held generously in his hands, gifted in the sway of his body, the touch as he deposits the food on the table. He's the dessert, the gift, the coffee and the cigarette. They spend every moment touching his shoulder and thanking him, sincerely. All but Minerva who, glaring, makes naught but the faintest of connections to him (at least acknowledging that he is in the room, but little beyond this.)

Dinner continues as you might expect; eating, talking – mostly about how wonderful this dish is, or that, how pleasant the wine is, the weather is, the evening is, the summer is – and more unhidden glances to the now reclining boy (sitting by the kitchen door, watching his mistresses attentively.)

After a period of half an hour, Oliver withdraws into the house only to return with a record player (old, ancient; Oliver engages a fantasy that it exists as a relic of the Great War.) He selects a record at random (what misfortune, a dragging piece by Handel, which, while pleasing furniture music, exists somewhere beyond his interest, Oliver hoping instead for something like Billie Holiday or Cole Porter, to make this F.-Scott-Fitzgerald portrait complete.)

The dinner ends somewhere near midnight; Victoria begins to drift to familiar sleep, and her lady-friends feel useless to help her. They part with hugs and kisses (also reserved for Oliver, who puts a pleasing cap on the experience by shedding his over coat to expose his white shirt beneath [of course, being Oliver, top three notches unbuttoned and sleeves rolled up to his elbows] which is far more saccharine than the soft chocolate cake previously enjoyed.)

At last, Victoria gives the two remaining party-goers (an impossibly withdrawn Minerva and an awkwardly shuffling Oliver) a nod and a "goodnight" and goes to bed.

At last, our scene comes down to two – even the lights seem to dim, and the whole stage is immersed in shadow save for the round spotlight the boy and the woman occupy. Silence, naturally, rules the night.

Minerva begins the inevitable: "Perhaps you didn't hear me the first time –"

She is interrupted as Oliver pulls towards her and plants the most tender of kisses to her mouth, a feat long thought impossible to emerge from the body of a boy. "Please," he whispers, "it's just a summer thing. Don't worry about it."

It bends, it breaks; the center cannot hold. The pure energy rippling from the boy; like radiation, or mercury, or something equally as noxious, bad for the body but ignored by the mind. Minerva, possessed by herself, thoughts of students and teaching – the critical mind accusing her of rape, of hate, of dishonesty and pain – but Oliver, ever-charming, is shirtless now, and het with summer fire and the taste of Minerva (wine and spices, a familiar mix.)

She wants to worry about it, wants to break away and deny him and banish him! but Oliver begins to kiss at her neck, to plant the smooth length of his tongue in the hollows of her throat; and when he kisses her mouth she can taste the sweetness of dessert hidden under his tongue. The sensation of his teeth (the two sharp ones; canines, perhaps, tingle as they scratch her tongue) is near overwhelming, and it's all she can do to breathe in his smell – pine and boys' deodorant and sweet milk and the dust of the house.

He drops to his knees; he paws at the waist of her skirt and manages to release the clutch. He hides, tents himself under her, and slides off her undergarments (black intricate things; deliberate?) A tongue reaches to action, rolling and licking, teasing and entering her, gently, to release and commence its hieroglyphic pattern about her waist. Oh, the sensation of it cuts breath from the woman, draws it into her lungs to disperse through her body – each breath bringing with it the sting of pleasure to spread it like venom through her blood. The tattoo of her heart reaches heights, fluttering, hating in her chest as his tongue flips and enters her, patterns her waist with kisses and nips. Her hips buck, easing into him, soft thighs nudging against his cheek as he goes on and on; furthering, deepening.

Her fingers clutch the edges of the table as she comes, and she bites her lip to blood to stop from crying out (she owes that much to herself.) Like being struck, or slapped, and red heat sparks vividly in her cheeks and at the top of her chest. This isn't the orgasm, she realizes, this isn't the tongue or her body or the cold brush of night. This is Oliver, this is all Oliver, this is the boy and his charm – that's what fires her; any other man, any boring old man could not revive this beast like boy-Oliver did. Oh God, it is the boy and that's why her hips push to the sky and her back arches near painfully and her teeth bite down; it's all Oliver, it is that sweet face and small pink tongue and naked body and their past relationship, burned and corrupted into this heavenly shambles of a summer tryst.

She slows, her mind calms, her hips fall and Oliver arises, smiling and grinning and wiping his lips with the back of his hand. He leans into her and kisses her lips with the lazy happiness of those in pleasure – a silly puckered lip-to-lip.

Minerva relaxes herself against the table and lets her heart fall to calm beats, and then – oh, how she hates herself for it, how she detests herself – she smiles, and says:

"Oh – oh my heavens – that's –" so sly, so wicked and grinning, "I must say, fifty points to Gryffindor."

He laughs, and she laughs; they laugh until they cry and the night turns black and they sleep, together, in her bed, until morning through.

  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Who shall measure the heat and violence of the poet's  
heart when caught and tangled in a woman's body?  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------

  
To describe every moment of intimacy, every moment of finger-curling, hip-bucking sex would be impossible. The details of each moment could only be summarized in novels, not paragraphs. As such, only the highlights will be described, and they are as follows.

  


*

  
The boy, by now a regular and welcome fixture of the house, lies on the grass of Victoria's backyard, scarcely dressed (baggy camouflage shorts, going appropriately "commando" underneath – Minerva doesn't understand the term, so Oliver has to explain; both subjects laugh.) Minerva sits in her familiar chair and reads; she's an odd lady like that, one of those people you always seem to see sitting – she looks nearly unnatural in any other position, and Oliver tries to remember if she ever taught class standing up – surely, surely.

In any case, she is reading that damnable novel again (Flann O'Brien's _At Swim-Two-Birds_, a thick unknowable thing Minerva tries to explain and Oliver can never, ever understand) and she has that slightly sour look to her face. Oliver contents himself with braiding long piece of grass, tickling the round of his nipples, and watching Minerva read.

"You know," he begins, his voice adopting the sound that prophesizes rambling, "everyone asks why the sky is blue, right? It's one of those typical questions kids ask their parents. But, you know, no one ever seems to be able to explain it. It's such a – a pop culture thing, isn't it? But when does anyone ever give an answer?"

Minerva glances over her book at the boy (on his stomach now, leaning up; what beautiful shoulder blades, pyramids of bone and –) and gives a little frown.

"I mean, why _is_ the sky blue?"

Minerva cocks an eyebrow and settles her glasses to the bridge of her nose before she speaks: "It has something to do with the angle of the sunlight entering the atmosphere."

"Hm," Oliver sounds, flipping to his back (cross-hatched grass pattern etched on that flat, white tummy), "that's kind of boring. You sure it's not the reflection of the water in the sky?"

"I hardly think so."

"Maybe that's why no one asks these questions. The answers are so boring."

They are silent once more, punctured only occasionally by the turning of a page, or the sigh of a boy.

Wood: "Let's go to Austria."

McGonagall: "Pardon?"

Wood: "Let's go to Austria."

McGonagall: "I heard you, I meant, Pardon me what in Merlin's name do you mean?"

Wood: "I mean let's leave here, buy two tickets to Austria and go to Vienna."

McGonagall: "That's absurd."

A few moments of silence. Then Oliver turns to face Minerva and smiles.

"Think about it, we could go to France by bus, get a train in Paris and ride it to Vienna. Get a hotel somewhere in the old district, a nice big marble place with gold designs everywhere and candlelight and servant boys who wait on your hand and foot. We could get room service champagne and watch Austrian television. Then, at night, we could go to the opera and talk all though it and make all the old stodgy people there really angry. We could talk over whatserface's aria – whatserface, you know the one –"

"Carmen?"

"Yeah, Carmen, sure. And we could sneeze at really important parts, and cough and throw popcorn and then get thrown out, and we could hit all the cafes in town and drink absinthe and get really stoned and try and swim in the river – whatsit, the river –"

"The Danube." (bemused reply)

"Yeah, the Danube. Yeah. That's what we should do."

It's nice getting caught in his stories, belonging as one star to the constellation of his fantasies. It's far too easy, far too romantic to imagine, strolling the river-walk with him and drinking and smoking and being a generally terrible person. Minerva smiles and replies: "You wouldn't want to swim in the Danube."

"Then, in the hot tub." That glance, oh you know that glance if ever you've met a boy who knows he's going to come. That's the looks he gives.

"We can't go to Vienna," Minerva replies succinctly, looking at him over her glasses. She affirms this with a nod of her head.

"I know." Oliver deflates a bit. "Oh well."

Minerva returns to reading, and Oliver tries to touch his tongue to his nose.

  


*

  
Minerva watches him doze in the grass, and her mind fantasizes situations for him. Here he is, now, young, lying in the ferns by the edge of a stream. His wrists arch elegantly over his head, and he's as pale as whey; drowned, in the river, and now abandoned on the shore, foot still dragging in the cold stream, dirt ringing the cuffs of his pants and creasing his bare feet with mud. Or else raped, broken by a group of men, deposited in the forest for fresh-faced joggers to happen upon; number-one story on the six o'clock news – local boy (cue reminiscent picture, arm slung around the shoulders of boys, laughing! and cheer) raped and killed, left in countryside; more gory details to come (i.e.: amount of men, size of them, current location, relation to the boy, how they picked him up; how sexual the news becomes – and they have the gall to call others deviant!) Oh, and now, from some Belgian warfield, blood weeping from the hole in his stomach, lying destroyed in this forgotten glade, having crawled there for miles, away from the fighting –

She shakes her head, too engrossed with the macabre, and sees him there, just sleeping, in the grass.

  


*

  
"Do you ever think this is wrong?"

Oliver is naked. His cock lies sleeping between his legs, nested in the short curl of hair. He leans on his elbow at the end of Minerva's bed, leaning into a magazine he barely reads. Minerva attends to herself at the vanity, putting on make-up for their evening out (dinner and then a bar; daring the world, to be honest.)

"I _know_ it is."

"Then why do you do it – do I," a lazy pitch in his hips, and he touches himself lightly, fingering the head of his cock thoughtlessly, "make you feel young?"

"Oh, if anything you make me feel old."

"Is it because you just love jailbait?"

"No."

"I don't get it, then."

Minerva has thought about this; has many calculated responses, ranging from defensive to sheer lunacy. She questions every moment she touches Oliver, wrestling herself over each fragment of affection she doles to the boy. A teacher! for God's sake, a teacher! – but Oliver, desired and deserved and God, he wants it and he loves it – it's not like they're blackmailing, or forced into it – and she loves the curl of his fingers and the touch of his lips – and her importance in his eyes, the affection with which he looks at her, all the games he plays – she loves the respect; a respect neither teaching nor prowess nor anything but sexual vigor can create – yes, the respect –

She replies: "Because I want to."

And it feels good.

  


*

  
They get really, really stoned.

  


*

  
Oliver takes ill near the middle of August. A fever, red-blowing and sweaty. He succumbs overnight, with McGonagall, and takes to her bed – so now Minerva has two ailing people to tend for.

He's quite beautiful – tragically beautiful – when he's ill. Oh, all red, naked under his sheets, sweat peeling off every section of skin, slick to the touch and salty to the kiss. He exists as a bundle of blankets, coiled under them like a sleeping snake, spending his days with rough tongue (impatient, very often, snapping and moaning gently.) His hair is oily from having been bed-ridden for days, and it sticks up at odd angles, tangled about his ears and face – he really shouldn't be appealing at all, but to touch, just slightly the hot angle of his hip, or finger his feathered ribs – then you know his beauty, and why he is attractive so.

His cock grows red and swollen on occasion, and Minerva strokes it sometimes, sitting at the edge of his bed. He never reaches completion, though, for when she exercises him (slowly, fingers just lazy over the length of it) he is quickly lulled to sleep, and his cock softens to warmth again.

She prepares him meals; serving him boiled chicken with its skin, and cranberries, things to keep his strength up; carrot soup and cream of broccoli. Tea with lemon and sugar. Warm wine, too, and lots of it at night, which seems to temper his fever and please him greatly.

He sleeps fitfully, but she loves the touch of his skin as he does so; warm, so warm, like pieces of fresh bread, just total and utter heat coursing from his body; radiating from his cock and his armpits, sweat building at the small of his back and the top of his chest (her hand glides over it, around, and then up along his spine.) Like something surreal, a mythological boy; Apollo riding the chariot of the sun (coursing warmth) or just Helios himself. Little bundle, little incandescent boy; she touches his forehead and the curve of his belly button, kissing him sometimes on the lips (Oedipus.)

He regains health in a few days, and assumes his usual vigorous glow; ahh, the invincibility of youth.

  


*

  
At night, in our familiar garden, Minerva and Oliver lounge again. Minerva is reading (a new one now, bare-covered – she said it was something like, oh, _Dublin_? _The Dubliner_? Something like that, he can't remember) and Oliver contents himself with his little brother's Game Boy (ringing and dinging like every videogame stereotype you could imagine.)

You know how in those dark places, when the sky is heavy with stars, your attentions stirs from the ordinary – and the book or the poem or the game you're enjoying suddenly pops and you lose interest, no matter the previous joy. Distraction embodies you and it's near impossible to concentrate on anything but that growing heat in your belly, and the proximity – her hand, her leg, the arch of her calf and the red of her lips, her skirt, her shirt, her breasts, her feet, her hands, her –

Oliver takes off his shirt; resistant to the fabric, annoying and cloying; he takes off his shorts, and remains in his boxers (a comfortable median between real life and sex, which he enjoys immensely.) He does that tilt, that arch in his back and fold in his stomach, bending the muscle and sucking on his lower lip – the kind of look that makes Minerva's eyes freeze on the page and cross her legs.

He doesn't know why he does it – okay, okay, _he does_, but he doesn't like to admit that he likes the attention (which he does; there's a reason why he took the Quidditch captain position) – but he's soon enticing himself, teasing his cock, hand slid under the hem of his boxers; theatrical and pornographic at once. Minerva watches, pretends not to; but Oliver knows her eyes have stopped scanning the page as he teases the collar of his boxers sliding them down just enough to show a dark curl of hair, or the soft root of his cock. It's mystifying, the conjunction of his hand and his hip, the connection between his shifting hand and the rocking of his waist.

God, can she ever stop admiring his beauty? He's like true boyhood, shifting more into a symbol than a person now, but every so often he'll say something ("I was thinking about changing our starting lines next year" – "Who's in your NEWT Transfiguration class next semester? Don't tell me Flint's in it –") and then her whole self-contained boyhood-fantasy comes crashing about her ankles and she just sees Oliver, plain Oliver, and there is never better sex than that. Like now, all roguish, strung deeply in his web of sex, a place boys seem to live naturally – yes, where they look their most normal, their most common, in the throes of passion (you'll never see a gent more sweet, more open, more happy than when his cock is worked over.) He's like a colt; irresponsible, energetic, ready to bolt, ready to fly – explosive and fast-burning, a sky-walking firework, leaping and jumping only to the things he likes.

He jerks himself off now, and she watches. How perverted, how thick and dirty, which is maybe why she watches. Never has she done anything out of the norm, never has she indulged in drugs or trickery or lies or deceit. But now – well, she could blame the coming war, or loneliness, or Victoria's impending death (another source of guilt, but Victoria insists she spend as much time with Oliver as she can) but really it comes down to that fact that Minerva just wants it, and that she's always wanted it, since Ewing came those years ago requesting Oliver be made the new keeper.

It's still hidden in the cloth, his hand, but the real attraction comes from his face, all clenched and tight, biting his lower lips, nostrils flaring. That's where the real sex happens; dark under the eyes, shadows masking and unmasking, trapped in his hair and thick on his eyelashes.

He frees himself from his boxers, and rolls to his back, leaning up on one hand while the other pumps at his swollen cock with the other. It's like something from a pornographic film, something vivid and real but distinctly separated from true sex. It does away with reality and replaces it with false-shined fake-fruit, like she's watching a set action rather than the spontaneous Oliver she's felt before. He really has become a symbol of boyishness, and in this he's stepped into the realm of pure fantasy, isolating himself in his constellation once more, just another star in a series of elaborate make-believes.

But when he comes (oh, she squirms, half of out of guilt and half out of knowing it will be the last time she sees him coming, so vulnerable, beautiful) it all seems to fade, and all that exists are his red lips, pressed and parted and gasping anew; her name, on the wind, and the sudden ecstatic shock in his eyes as the come lands in strings about his chest and stomach; he looks like he's seeing God.

He cleans himself off and stands, before her, naked. One last look; now imperfect form only visible after he's came (scars on the back of his shoulders, a birthmark on the small of his back,) They touch hands, and he kisses her palm gently, and then the back of her hand.

"I'll see you later, then," Oliver says.

"Mm, yes," comes the lady's reply.

It's the last day of summer; and that was the wax seal, the final recognition of just what he is and just what he means (to Minerva; for Oliver this was just a bit of fun, something to fill the days and to fill his mind, a new game, a new play.) He doesn't ask silly questions – we can keep doing this, or maybe next year, or would you like to stay together tonight; he knows all the answers now and he doesn't have to ask a thing. So he kisses her palm once more and gathers up his clothes. He slips into his boxers, flannel that rides up to those wonderful thighs, and he turns to the back garden wall. The hollows of his knees, as deep as eggs, itch, and he scratches them, and that movement is the last she sees of his body; the bend to scratch, the rippling of muscle and moving shadow, like the flight of birds, winged ribs sliding and folding like clockwork under his skin. And then, without looking back, he tosses his things over the wall, and with a flying jump, vaults the thistle and crawls up the stone border. He straddles this boundary for a moment, glances over his shoulder, once, at Minerva and then swings over to the other side.

_Fin._

  


**Author's Note:**

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